


tumblr

by realmsoffreedom



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7672231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmsoffreedom/pseuds/realmsoffreedom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"drugaddictedanddepressed left a comment on your post: i don't know why you say such negative things about yourself. i think you're beautiful."</p><p>"perfectionisnteasy: no one asked for your input. and please don't lie to me. it's not funny." </p><p>-</p><p>"tellmeimafuckedupmess: hey, are you okay? some of the things you post are really concerning, i'm worried about you..."</p><p>"mymindisnotmyown: please don't talk to me."</p><p>or, where four boys meet on tumblr and learn things both about themselves and each other that they never thought possible</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to preface this author's note by saying that this fic is **dark**. It's quite possibly one of the darkest things I've ever written, and it deals with a bunch of triggering things that I'm not going to apologize for. I'll try and post warnings on particularly triggering chapters, for example, this first one, but if anything in the tags is triggering for you, I wouldn't advise going any further.
> 
> That being said, I posted this fic a few months ago and then took it down because I lost motivation. I've picked it back up again because I've found some new ideas, and I hope you guys will all enjoy it.

The scale is undeniably daunting. 

For the average individual, a scale is a measurement of weight, a number to be stored at the back of the mind when choosing foods to eat. It isn’t daunting nor does the reality sting with venom able to be compared to a bite from a poisonous snake. For the average individual, a glimpse of the number on the scale doesn’t strike fear in their heart or catalyze a ball of anxiety in their chest. For the average individual, a scale is just a scale, and the number it reads is just that, a number.

But he’s not an average individual.

The scale is terrifying, threatening him with cruel eyes that seem to have the premonition that he’s going to have gained weight. It’s like they’re griping onto the fact like a dog with a bone, not daring to deviate to anything else. It’s captivating, in a dangerous way. His weight is addicting. It’s like a drug – it’s created a home in his mind and he’s unable to stop thinking about it. 

That’s what his life revolves around, really. It’s not what he ever thought he’d do, but it’s something he’s dreamed about. He wants to be consumed by the idea of losing weight and looking at least decently attractive. He aspires to be like those skinny bitches who spend all their time in the gym and worry about the calories in every crumb they consume. That’s the dream. He didn’t see it before, but that really is the dream. 

It’s hard to control urges, and that’s what’s keeping him away from getting to where he’d like to be, in terms of weight loss. Urges to eat are painful. You don’t know pain unless you’ve felt hunger pains; until you’ve felt your stomach twisting in itself, begging for some sustenance. True strength is the ability to ignore it. But he’s not that strong. He’s given in to the urges more often than not. 

A diet like this is just hard to hide. Not many people understand it. People think he’s starving himself because he’s anorexic, sick in the head. That’s just wrong. He’s not one of those skeletal people with no weight to lose. No one understands that. His diet is all his own. No one else deserves control over what he does to his body. But somehow, people have gotten the idea that they’re privileged to control what he puts in his body and what he doesn’t. 

Hiding something like this is harder than it looks. His dad is relentless with the overprotective and overbearing questions. It’s expected, he is the only child, and ever since his mother left, his father has tried to step up and be his mother as well as his father. He doesn’t always succeed at the mother part, but he’s nailed the father part. Michael couldn’t be more grateful. At least he’s not one of the kids who ends up with a drunken, abusive father, after the mother leaves. He’s read the stories; that’s fucked up. 

He shakes his head and pulls himself out of the thoughts. He glances first at the mirror, then down at his pudgy stomach. He hasn’t even bothered to pull up his shirt yet, and he can already see how fat it is. It’s gross. _He’s_ gross. 

_It’s now or never. Get it over with. You can always get rid of lunch if the number is that bad._ He’s being a wimp and it’s stupid. He shouldn’t be this hesitant to weigh himself. It’s something he does routinely. Every day, almost. Weigh himself, take pictures of his body, and post them on tumblr to his thousands of followers. 

He doesn’t run a “pro-ana” blog, or promote the idea of starving. It’s him that’s wrong, not everyone else. He wouldn’t dare tell someone else they had to lose weight. That’s not the way he works. He just started posting pictures on a tumblr blog to document his progress, and soon, he ended up with thousands of followers. There are so many people on that website he looks up to – people with tiny waists and lean hips and no visible belly fat. He’s got a long way to go. 

He undresses quickly. Giving himself time to look at himself in disgust isn’t going to make him want to weigh himself any more. He needs to get it over with. In one motion, he sheds the clothes and steps onto the scale, squeezing his eyes shut and crossing his fingers as it calculates the number that will dictate the mood of the rest of his day.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he does it anyway.

135\. 

No change.

Hot tears burn at the corners of his eyes. He’s so stupid. How can he fail at doing this? He can understand sports or school or something you have to be good at, but this is weight loss. And he hasn’t been eating very much. He only ate lunch to appease his father. And that’s probably going to come back up anyway. He’s doing everything right. He doesn’t get why the weight isn’t coming off. The only reason must be overconsumption. He’s eating too much. And it’s a hard pill to swallow. 

More hunger pains, more agony, more reasons to just take his entire bottle of sleeping pills and end it all. He wouldn’t have to worry about his weight, then. It wouldn’t be a big deal. He wouldn’t live his life to lose weight. It feels like that’s the only reason he wakes up anymore; to head to the gym and not eat and hope the numbers on the scale go down. It’s a shitty way to live. He doesn’t know how he’s done it for so long, but it’s impossible to keep going.

Maybe not impossible, but it’s going to take a lot more strength than he even thinks he has. It’s a matter of willpower and determination, and he’s not sure he has any left. He’s tired of caring this much. It’s too stressful. It takes way more effort than it’s worth.

Is being thin really worth all this?

He doesn’t know. 

…

Pressure is fickle. 

It is forever varied, always changing depending on the circumstances. Pressure appears as a blessing in disguise; something people don’t really see as a good thing until they’re surfing through the aftershocks of what happened. It’s like that thing you bash to hell until you realize the thing wasn’t actually as bad as you made it out to be.

Pressure can be consuming. It’s like bending something so much so that it eventually snaps. People are like that too. You can’t just put an extreme amount of pressure on them and expect them to be able to handle it. Everyone has a breaking point. 

Having to help your mother raise your siblings when you can barely go a day without wanting to die yourself? If that’s not pressure, he doesn’t know _what_ is. 

His life isn’t bad. It’s not one of those ‘woe is me, everything fucking sucks and I have no reason to live’ things. He could have it worse. It’s just hard for him to grow up this quickly. He’s not allowed to be a kid. His childhood stopped when he was six years old. He doesn’t have any room to sit and wallow in his pain. It’s just life. And sometimes, life turns around and knocks you on your ass.

A period of adjustment is what his mother calls it. When they have to start making do with what they have and learning how to tread water after being tossed into the deep end. It’s not going to be easy; if life was easy, so many people wouldn’t want theirs to end. There’s been a lot of change happening very quickly, and he’s just not sure how to handle it all, really. He doesn’t have time to process, so lately, he’s been floating through life with a sense of numbness and his only goal being to get through the day. It’s no way to live.

He’s not ashamed of the cuts on his wrists. He’s not ashamed of the scars on his thighs. Why should he be? He did that to himself. No one cut him. He did it to himself, and there are times when he is proud of it because it got him through some really rough patches. He doesn’t have to be ashamed of how he fixed what someone else broke. What his bastard of a father broke. He doesn’t owe him anything. 

Cutting is complicated.

Anyone can see that. But it’s even more complicated than one would think it is. Cutting is being able to sink a blade into flesh without thinking about it. It’s having the emotional strength and stability to do it mercilessly, not caring about the repercussions. The first cut is like the first smoke. You hate it at first, but it draws you in, convincing and manipulative. And then it turns into something you can’t live without, something that’s necessary to get through the day.

Too bad there’s no patch to get rid of a self-harm addiction. Not many people see it as a prevalent issue, because you’d have to be crazy to stick a blade in your own flesh, wouldn’t you? There’d have to be something fucked up in your head. You’d definitely belong in a mental institution. The people who make these pre-disposed judgments are the worst kind of people. The people who don’t know, don’t understand. The people who won’t bother trying to understand, even if you talk to them about it. Those are the shittiest kind of people.

He hasn’t been in contact with many of them, so it hasn’t been a big worry. But the amount of people who know about this is alarming. Most of them don’t know his identify and have never seen his face, but the people on tumblr aren’t exactly the kindest, all of the time.

He’s one of the types of people who takes pictures of his cuts and posts them on his blog, to document it somewhere. He’s not urging people to follow in his footsteps, in fact, he’s doing the exact opposite. Multiple trigger warnings are posted on his blog and he tags every post, so really, he’s not doing anything wrong. The people who get triggered are the ones specifically searching the tags. And why would they do that, if they didn’t want to be triggered? 

There are so many people who condemn him for doing it, anonymously. They’re cowards who can’t even come off anon, so he doesn’t really pay mind to it. If they want to send him anon hate because they’re prissy little bitches who think everything in the world is a trigger, fine. He doesn’t have to care about it. It’s his blog, and he can do whatever the hell he wants and post whatever the hell he wants.

He knows it’s not healthy, to get this addicted to something so dangerous. He’s not stupid. He knows that. But going without is harder than going with. He’d rather risk going too deep than not do it at all, in fear he might hit a vein. It’s a sacrifice that needs to be made. Sometimes, things have to be sacrificed for the bigger picture. Going without is harder than anyone can imagine. He’s tried. It hasn’t worked. 

It’s like a nicotine addiction. But do blood addictions really exist? He’d be called a fucking lunatic for walking up to someone and telling them he has a blood addiction, but isn’t that what this is? Feeling the pain and seeing the blood fuel him enough to get through the day and stay alive long enough to tackle the next. Call him crazy, but he’s really not. Life just works out that way. Sometimes people aren’t destined for this world. 

He’s not suicidal. At least, he doesn’t really want to kill himself. He wouldn’t mind getting hit by a car, though. Or accidentally cutting too deep. It’d be an accident. A mistake.

Just like he is. 

…

Anxiety exists in everyone.

There are always going to be people that get nervous or anxious before an important event, that start shaking or talk too fast while they’re speaking in front of people, that sore of thing. It’s not extraordinary. Everyone gets nervous. It’s not something to be worried about. It eventually goes away, doesn’t it? The more you do presentations, the more you talk, the easier it gets, right?

Wrong.

Anxiety is complicated. Because it’s something found in everyone, something that exists in all humans, people don’t think much of it. Anxiety _disorders_ are the real picnic. Not being able to do half the things most people should be able to because your brain and mind simply won’t _let_ you…now that’s another story.

Anxiety disorders are dangerous. There’s a voice in his head that constantly tells him that everyone he’s surrounded by is judging him. It’s vicious, merciless, heinous. It doesn’t let up. Walking to the front of the classroom to throw something out is a task. The voice in his head claims that everyone will look at him, judge him for how he walks, and what he’s throwing away. 

He’s quiet, not because he wants to be, but because people don’t have anything to judge him on if he doesn’t talk and disappears into the shadows. It’s a choice he’s made to keep himself from having panic attack after panic attack, based on life experience. And panic attacks must be the devil’s work, because they’re something he’s left exhausted at the end of, like he’s just run a marathon.

The thing about anxiety disorders, is that no one understands them until they have them. It’s sad, really. You need to have a crippling disorder and be utterly fucked in the head to understand what he goes through every day, but that’s the cold, hard truth. There’s no other way to comprehend the fear of making a phone call, the hesitancy to order food at a restaurant, and most terrifying; giving presentations in front of an audience of people, no matter the number.

It’s taken him years to learn how to cope semi-decently, and even then, he still isn’t completely calmed by putting in his headphones and watching Netflix while leaving his problems to stew all around him. It’s a temporary fix, a band-aid over a bullethole. There’s still blood building inside, but if you ignore it for long enough, you forget about it. Until it blows up in your face.

Anxiety has ruined his life. It’s made him susceptible to torment, unable to fight back as bullies shove his head into toilets and beat him up in the corner of the schoolyard. It’s the reason he doesn’t leave his room, doesn’t go hang out with his brothers, doesn’t go to concerts of the bands that have managed to save his life. It’s devastating, especially when he has to deal with it himself with no help from anyone.

His parents don’t recognize that he has a problem, and he gets that. It’s hard for some people to understand. There are some people who get it. They may not understand it fully, but they’re willing to get past that and get their kid the treatment they need. And then there are the people who don’t think it’s real, who think all it is is nerves. That’s the category his parents fall into. They don’t really understand it at all. He doesn’t blame them, but it’d be nice if they tried to be more understanding and get him the help that he really needs. 

People don’t particularly like him. He’s viewed as the weird kid who sucks at presentations and can’t talk to _anyone_ without shaking and coming very close to a panic attack. That’s all he’s seen as. People don’t see him for him, but then again, he’s never let his real personality shine through. It doesn’t have the chance. He’s too worried that no one will like him or want to be his friend, even though that’s already the case. 

His brothers are growing up and he’s missed it. He missed having them in the house because he was always in his room. And now they’re out and in college and meeting people and starting their lives, while he’s still hiding out in his room and worrying about what his own family thinks of him. He knows they want him to face his fears and tackle his obstacles, but it’s something way out of his comfort zone. They’re willing to push, but his feet are planted firmly at the edge of the pool. He doesn’t want to move. 

Anxiety has ruined his life in all the ways. There are so many things he’s been unable to do, so many opportunities he’s missed out on, and so many reasons for him to just give up now. There’s no reason to try and fight his mind – it’s a battle he won’t win. His mind is armed with the voice that seems to try and tear him down every time he tries to get out of his comfort zone. He’s drowning.

It’s like he’s stuck in quicksand, trying to stay above the surface when he’s being pulled below. There’s nothing tethering him to the world. His anxiety has managed to knock him completely on his ass, unable to get back up. He’s been tackled, knocked down, and he  
s not getting back up. He can’t. It’s not going to happen.

There’s just no way for him to make it out of this alive. How is he going to survive college when he can’t even get up to throw something away without shaking? How is he going to live, despite having this terrible anxiety following him? It’s like the annoying friend that won’t go away no matter what. It’s the most irritating thing on the planet. He can’t get rid of it. 

So maybe his only option is to lie back and let it defeat him. That’s what it wants, anyway, 

…

Control. 

Being in control is one of the best things you can do for yourself. Being able to take charge of your life and make things happen the way you envisioned them to. Being in control allows for so many opportunities to live your life the way you _want_ to, not the way people tell you to, not the way society wants you to, the way _you_ want to. For most people, being in control isn’t something they have to think about. They’re just in it. For someone with manic depression, or bipolar disorder, being in control is one of the hardest things to achieve.

When someone hears the word bipolar, they automatically think of the afflicted individual screaming their head off one moment, and acting “normal” the next. That is so far from the truth, it’s honestly hard for him to comprehend that there are people out there who actually think that’s the truth. Bipolar disorder is so much more than that. If only it was just mood swings, if fucking only.

Manic depression elicits a different reaction from people. They think of screaming and yelling and kicking and fighting, anger management issues, basically. It’s so fucked up, the perceptions people have of these disorders and how far from reality they are. People who are mentally ill aren’t crazy, and there aren’t enough people who understand that. Of course, anyone who shoots up public area is automatically deemed mentally ill, and therefore, “crazy”, making matters even worse. People are scared of him when they shouldn’t be.

Manic depression, all it is, is high highs and low lows. In the simplest terms, that’s what it boils down to. Mood swings, although there’s so much more involved in those mood swings. When he’s happy, he’s over the fucking moon, bursting with love and joy and pride and the urge to make someone else happy. When he’s having a bad day, it’s like someone has taken a vacuum cleaner hose and sucked all the joy right out of him, leaving behind an empty shell of nothingness. And then there’s the in between phase, where he’s not over the fucking moon but not an empty shell of nothingness, he’s just floating, numb and unsure how to feel. It’s so fucking confusing and he hates it. 

He can control the mood swings so they’re not as bad, with medication. Only, for that to happen, one would actually have to _take_ the pills. He hates them. They make him feel weird. Mood stabilizers seem wonderful at first look, but they have horrible side effects. Nausea, vomiting, weight gain, shaking, and even more. It’s not fun and anyone who thinks that medication is the answer to all life’s problems is off their fucking rocker. He doesn’t want to be dependent on it. That’ll send him spiraling into a vicious cycle of drugs. And he can’t go back down that road, not after it took so much out of him to get off it the first time.

Drugs are enticing. Even after hearing about them and how addicting they are in school assemblies, he was still curious. He regrets it all now. Cocaine and heroin and marijuana used to be big parts of his life, they used to take the edge off his depression and make him feel like he wasn’t so fucked up. Days blurred into nights, passing him by so fast he barely remembers them. That year of his life when he was so addicted to the drugs was probably his worst. An overdose almost killed him, and that’s what it took for him to pull his head out of his ass and realize that this wasn’t the answer.

Waking up in that hospital room took a lot out of him. Waking up to the realization that he, a sixteen year old boy with a promising football career and a family that loved him, had gotten so addicted to drugs and destroying himself, that he almost died. That was life changing. The drug addiction isn’t nearly as much of a problem now – he doesn’t do drugs anymore – but he’s still fucked up beyond belief, and the thought haunts him every day. 

Destroying yourself is captivating. It’s something that pulls you in, slow first, but then speeding up. It becomes a game, how far you can push yourself before you break. How much your body can take. Finding your breaking point requires so much experimenting, experimenting that can be considered precarious on every level. He’s not proud to say he’s done most of it, and he’s even less proud of the fact that his breaking point is so fucking high. It takes a lot for him to break. And getting to that point was not easy.

It’s harder than anyone thinks to get off drugs. All those pretentious assholes who throw shit at the people who live on the streets and are hopelessly addicted to drugs need a stick shoved up their asses. They’ll never have any idea of the hell getting off drugs is. Withdrawal is probably the most painful thing he’s ever had to go through. It hurt, everywhere, like there were needles under his skin, tearing into his flesh relentlessly. It’s harder to get off drugs than it is to stay on them and keep you mind and body at rest. When you’re physically and emotionally dependent on something, getting off it is agony. 

The overdose was a wake up call for him, yes, but it was also something he really fucking hoped would work. He was pissed when it didn’t. He can still remember when he took all the pills. He was so high and so drunk and he wanted it to end. Imagine his anger to wake up and realize that it didn’t. There’s still a part of him that really wishes it had. He wouldn’t try again, if he could, but he wouldn’t mind dying by accident. Getting hit by a car or falling off a cliff or something. 

He’s okay with dying, but he wouldn’t try and commit suicide again. He doesn’t know whether that’s good or not. Is it?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge trigger warning for eating disorders and suicidal thoughts. Be careful.

Waking up is one of the hardest things he has to do. It’s a daily trial, flooded by waves of thoughts of death and reasons he isn’t good enough. It feels like all he gets up for is losing weight. That’s the only purpose he has in life anymore. It doesn’t matter what grades he gets, whether he goes to college – none of that is as important as shedding the disgusting pounds he’s put on. It’s imperative that he lose the weight. That’s all there is to it.

He gets up an hour and a half before his alarm, so he can go down to the gym in their basement and get in a good 45 minute workout before school. Sometimes he stretches it to an hour, but he usually does another workout after school, so it all adds up either way. It’s something he thinks will add to his weight loss – maybe if he works out a little more, he won’t have to skip as many meals. It’s not that he minds, it’s just that his dad is already suspicious enough.

His dad decided to work from home after his mum left them, so he could be close and there whenever Michael needed him. It’s a blessing and a curse. There are times when he curls into his father’s side on the couch and watches a movie with him – the nights he’s more comfortable than ever, but his father is also very protective and worries a little too much. It might be considered obsessive, how much he worries, but it’s better than him not caring at all. The lesser of two evils.

The workout is standard. Stretching, and then running for a half hour, followed by more stretching. It’s not complicated – it doesn’t need to be. Running burns a fuckton of calories, enough for him to lose some weight. Hopefully. He’s gotten used to this routine, and he really doesn’t want to change it in favor for something else. 

He enjoys these moments. Just running as hard as he can, listening to his favorite bands and hoping they’ll get him through the day. It’s his alone time, when no one is invested in his life and trying to get him to do things he’s really not motivated to do. No one intrudes on it. Even his dad is used to it. He knows not to come down and bother him.

The workout seems harder today – it burns halfway through. His stomach is absolutely killing, pain ripping through his abdomen. They’re side stitches. Bad stomach cramps that arise randomly. It’s the bane of every runner’s existence. He usually doesn’t get them until the end of his session, so having them halfway through is unsettling. Maybe he’s trying to do too much? Or maybe he’s eaten too much and his stomach is upset? He doesn’t know. 

Pushing through the pain is too hard. It’s constant, relentless. An ache in his stomach that seems to worsen for every minute he pushes on. He can’t go any farther. He feels like his stomach is going to fucking rip through his skin. It hurts that much.

Sighing, he lowers the speed to one he can walk at, slowing down considerably. He’s learned from experience that cool downs are necessary. Just stopping abruptly can lead to nausea and vomiting – two things that have happened as a result of his stupidity. He now knows that a cool down is a necessity – he’ll puke if he doesn’t ease himself out of the workout. 

“Mikey? Bud, you down here?”

“Yeah, just finishing up!” 

Footsteps are heard on the steps, and then he finds himself face to face with his father. He sends him a kind smile, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, bud. I’m really proud of you for being so consistent with all this. You’re really determined, and it’s great to see. But don’t you think you might be overdoing it a touch? I mean, you work out like this every morning and even in the afternoons…I just think your body would thank you if you took a few rest days, and maybe cut it down to one run a day.”

“I want to get in shape, dad,” Michael insists stubbornly. He doesn’t get why everyone is so insistent on criticizing his exercise regimen. It works, and they must see the improvement, so what is there to bitch about? He’s sure they like the on a diet Mikey better than the fat Mikey. His dad is partial; he’ll love him either way. His opinion doesn’t count. 

“Getting in shape isn’t killing yourself with exercise. We can go talk to a personal trainer, who can figure out a balanced regimen for you, but this is starting to really concern me, Mikey. Please. Cut back, just a little. I don’t want you passing out from exhaustion or something. Your heart’s in the right place, but this is a little much.”

“Fine, whatever.” These are the times when his dad utterly pisses him off and he hates them. His dad is one of those people he hates being angry at. He knows that he has his best interests in mind, but sometimes, it goes too far. He doesn’t want to be angry at his dad, he’s worked so hard to build the amazing relationship they have now. It’s hard to ignore it all to be pissed at him.

“You know I’m doing this because I love you, right?” Daryl tilts his head and shoots him another one of those reassuring smiles. “I want the best for you, Mikey. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Ever since your mum left-”

“Why are you bringing mum into this?” Michael glares at him, stiffening at the mention of his mother. That’s the most touchy topic in their house. His dad is willing to forgive the bitch for all the shit he’s done, but he’s not that generous. She _left. She’s gone_. He can’t forgive her for leaving him when he needed her. 

“Your mum loved you, Mikey. She just wasn’t read-”

“Don’t fucking say it,” he growls. “If she loved me, she’d still be here. She wouldn’t have left when I was ten fucking years old. If you wanna leave, at least do it before I’m old enough to remember it, jesus christ.”

“Hey, watch your language,” Daryl scolds. His face softens. “I know you’re still upset. But you have to try and understand…”

“Understand why she left a ten year old that clearly needed her, with no explanation? I don’t understand. I really fucking don’t.” 

…

“Ash, you’ll pick up the kids after soon, right? I have to work late…”

Ashton sighs inwardly, plastering a smile on his face and nodding to his mother. She shoots him a grateful look as she grabs her purse and takes one more glance around the empty living room. “Cal’s waiting, mum. Can I go?”

“Of course, go on. You don’t want to be late.” She gives him a quick peck on the forehead, before reaching over to open the front door. Sure enough, Calum is standing on the sidewalk in front of his house, typing something out on his phone. 

Ashton says a lasting goodbye, calling it upstairs so his younger siblings can hear, before joining Calum just outside his house.

“You ready?” Calum slides his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirts and shoots a narrow eyed glance at him.

“For hell? Never.” Ashton falls into place beside him easily. They don’t live very far from the school – it’s barely a mile walk, and they’d rather walk than take a bus. Don’t have to deal with asshole kids and the crowded spaces. 

“I think it gets worse day after day. Like fuck, how many fuckin’ ways can they think of to piss me off? It’s like a new day brings things I hadn’t even thought of up until they happen.”

Calum is his best friend. They’ve known each other for a good nine years, although their friendship hasn’t been entirely consistent. When Calum got into drugs and started hanging out with a shitty crowd, Ashton refused to join in. It pissed Calum off at first, but after he overdosed, he realized his mistakes. Ashton’s just happy that he did. Under all the darkness and bitterness, Calum is really one of the best people he’s ever met. It’s hard to find someone so passionately loving and fiercely protective, but Calum is all that and more.

“People just need to mind their own fucking business,” he agrees. “Everyone’s so damn interested in other people’s lives because their own are falling apart, and that’s shit. Fix your own shit before delving into someone else’s.”

“I wish I could just drop out,” Calum confesses bitterly. “There’s not one second thought I’d have about it. School is way more stress than it’s worth. And it wrecks emotionally. I didn’t think I could be this fucked up, but this hellhole has proven me wrong. I wish I could fuckin’ burn it to the ground.”

“And then dance on the ashes? Me too,” Ashton replies. “The entire thing is shit. I don’t know why I bother trying anymore. It doesn’t seem like it’s worth it.”

“It isn’t worth it. You work your ass off for years to have issues finding a job and end up moving back in with your parents. Fuckin’ vicious cycle of life, isn’t it? So why bother?”

“Don’t wanna bother anymore.” Ashton drops his head and stares at the ground, not wanting to see Calum’s face when he continues. “Don’t really wanna live anymore, either, but that’s not really a big deal to anyone, is it?”


End file.
